


Love Bites

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: An Anthology of Kisses [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fusion, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Cheerleaders, Coach/Player Relationship, F/M, Feels, First Kiss, Kissing, Locker Room, Loss of Powers, Near Death Experiences, Older Man/Younger Woman, Teacher-Student Relationship, buffy feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: It's anything but a normal school week at Westeros High.Especially when your after-school activities take up so much of your damn time.This fic is a result of two kiss prompts from GreedIsGreen (#54) and framboise (#41) out of a list of76 kissing prompts.





	1. Hurt Locker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreedIsGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/gifts), [framboise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/gifts).



“May I have the room, please.”

The words are softly spoken and the tone, benign. But there’s a collective ripple in the locker room nevertheless before everyone grabs their gear and silently shuffles out of the room. 

Sansa knows to stay, of course. The tension, the animosity has been thick in their changing room since the results of their resounding defeat were announced. No surprises there for the squad, of course. You can’t win the heats at Nationals when the top flyer of your cheerleading pyramid flubs up her stunt.

She keeps her head low as the locker room empties, busying herself with her shoes as she takes an inordinately long time to undo her laces, to remove her socks, to rub her feet. There are some sympathetic shoulder-squeezes as they file out, for which Sansa is thankful. But for the most part, the squad just wants to kill their captain dead. 

She doesn’t blame them. If she were them, she’d want to yell at her too.

They both wait until every last cheerleader has left the room, until the murmur of hushed angry voices fade from the corridor. The school had emptied a long time ago, the rest of the visiting squads having piled into their branded buses and moved on to celebrate down in the village. It would have been a lot easier had Sansa done the obvious, sensible thing and bolted off home soon after. But she can be a real sucker for punishment sometimes. And so she stayed on, long after, enduring the side-eyes and the snide remarks and the open hostility and blame. 

And Coach had called it a day, had given his spiel, and been most philosophical about not even making the semis for the first time in god-knows how many decades. Some stock speech about still being a team and not blaming individuals, and it is only because half of the squad is secretly crushing on Baelish that he gets away with that tripe in the first place.

Sansa knows all this is beneath him, that his heart is not in it, that he’s only doing this because he has to. Because of her. He _loathes_ this, frankly. Even though he’s ironically the best coach they’ve had in forever. Even though he still turns up to practices wearing his uniform of skinny tie, pale blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and fitted beige chinos.

Who wears that and coaches cheerleading anyway. He can’t even do a split. And yet, they’d been winning and winning. Until her epic flub-up today.

He stands beside her now, his pants a hair’s breadth from brushing her arm.

“You’re still in your uniform,” he points out.

“I am.”

“Feeling sorry for yourself?”

“A bit.”

“Why?”

She looks up then, expression incredulous. But Petyr’s countenance is one of genuine curiosity. And worry.

“Why do you think! Didn’t you see me fall?”

“I did,” he replied softly. "You know I did.”

“Then you know why.” And she wills herself to stand up then. One fluid, graceful motion. She doesn’t wince even though she should. And yet she knows that he missed nothing. That he never does.

“Well?” she asks, and she sounds churlish and a little bratty, even to herself. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you.” He smirks and a corner of her mouth twitches at the corniness.

“That’s cute.”

“That’s what I do.”

“You’re my Watcher… you’re watching me… I get it. It’s clever.” (It's not. It's lame as. But it's still kinda cute.)

“Sansa…” And at the change in tone, she suddenly bristles. He’s staring at her now and he’s not happy. She stiffens, knowing the question is about to come.

“What really happened today?”

* * *

She doesn’t know, that’s the problem. 

One moment she’s with the squad as they’re executing the load. They get her there, she’s hitting her stunts, the pyramid’s climbing, she’s at the top, they’re about to strike the final pose… 

And then she lost it.

It was, like, a moment of weakness. Like a power outage.

The dismount was bad. Like watching a pig not fly, and she was lucky she didn’t really take anyone else down with her. But the way she fell and landed... If it had been anyone else, there would have been broken bones for sure. Maybe even a vertebra. Or a neck.

Thank goodness she heals fast, huh. Yay Slayer Powers.

Except she knows something is super  _off_.

“Sansa…” he murmurs again and she flicks him a nervous glance. She knows she can’t hide her suspicions from him. Petyr knows her better than she sometimes knows herself. It can be a real pill, actually.

He chucks her chin up to look at him. Without her shoes, she’s a little shorter today.

“Did it happen again? Your… momentary lapse?"

Sansa nods mutely, fear stealing across her gut like an icy fog. She’s faced an impressive spectrum of fangs in her shortish career as a vanquisher of vamps. Some small, some big, some really scary and bad. 

But _this_ … this truly shakes her.

“Has this been happening often? Tell me the truth, Sansa. Do you think this has anything to do with your... resurrection?” 

She squeezes her eyes shut now, staving off the memories that always come when he mentions the day she died and then _un-died_. The day they accidentally triggered Margaery.

She nods her head. She could never lie to him for very long. What is the point anyway? He’s the one who’s taught her everything she knows, after all. He pours himself out for her every day.

Even then, she knows it’s the mere tip of the iceberg that is Petyr Baelish’s mind.

* * *

Margaery had been summoned the moment Sansa had died. Activated, _called_ into service as soon as the Slayer Line had sensed her death the way a colony of bees knows when their queen has carked it. 

And then Petyr had fiddled.

Slayers are a lot like babies. As soon as they’re born into the world — as soon as they’ve transitioned from being merely Potentials into full-fledged Slayers… as soon as they come into their power, then there’s no returning them to the shop. 

And it’s not like they can be redistributed either. Once zoned, always zoned. 

Petyr is Margaery's Watcher now. And Petyr is also hers. 

Petyr had always been hers.

* * *

“It’s like… a weakening,” she tries to explain now. “Like vertigo — except I’ve never had vertigo, so maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. It doesn’t affect my balance or anything… but it feels as if there’s an interruption. Like I've suddenly lost power.” Like she's suddenly lost life.  

“How often does it happen?” Petyr asks in a low voice, stepping closer to her. She can make out the green within the grey of his eyes now. He has this unnerving way of not blinking when he’s excited or anxious.

“Like… once every two days, maybe.” She hesitates now. “There’s something else.”

“Go on.”

Sansa swallows now, hating this very moment. Saying this to him, hearing herself say it will only make it real. For weeks now, her hunch was just that — a hunch.

This will make it fact.

“Ever since I… returned? I feel halved.” 

Petyr stills.

“Okay, I don’t mean like I’m still half dead or anything… it’s not like half of me wants to be in the other realm either. I don’t mean that. But m-my strength, my _essence_ is depleted. I still have my powers, but not the intensity.” She shakes her head in frustration. “I don’t know how to explain… But maybe…” And she stares at Petyr now, absolutely loathing the next admission.

“Sansa…”

“Petyr, I don’t think I am _the_ Slayer anymore. I think I cheated the system, and the fact I’m here is an anomaly. I think Margaery is the proper Slayer. I’m just the help. I should be the Robin to her Batman. Or something.”

 _And your focus, therefore, should be solely on her._ But Sansa cannot say it. It eats her alive. It’s bad enough now, having to share…

But Petyr is shaking his head now. “Your theory, while logical on the surface, doesn’t meet the facts. I’ve been assessing Margaery when I train her.” He shakes his head again, his eyebrows furrowing. “She’s not very strong either.”

“She’s not?”

“No.” Petyr strokes the hairs on his face. He has this way, she knows, of tracing the path of hair above his lip and bringing his thumb and finger back down to a vee before stroking the stubble on his chin.

Sansa tries not to feel so damn gleeful about the fact that Margaery is possibly as piss-weak as she is. 

“Do you think she’s also weakened?”

“Quite possibly,” Petyr answers with a deep frown. “I’ll have to ask the Council if the entire Slayer Line has been compromised. If the Potentials are experiencing changes as well. Perhaps having two full-fledged Slayers out at once splits your powers in two.

“On the one hand — it’s business as usual, quite possibly. You and Margaery will have to figure out how to fight together to bring your full powers to bear.”

Sansa wrinkles her nose. She really doesn't relish the idea of more time with Margaery. The girl is friendly enough and looks bouncy and cute and harmless, but she has a mind of her own. She's trouble. And Sansa privately doubts very much that Margaery would want to take instruction from _her._

Even though she has way more field experience.

“On the other hand — and this is the bigger concern," Petyr warns, "— if both of your powers are halved, so to speak, then it would theoretically be easier for your enemy to pick you off. Divide and conquer.”

“I can still dust vamps, though. It’s not like I’m all frail and human and ‘look at me walking, around at night unaccompanied with no fighting skills, come bite my neck!’. I can still slay fine.”

“You can slay the vanilla ones fine,” Petyr corrects her. “But if we get a motherfucking big one, and only one of you faces off with him or her? Then we’re in trouble.”

* * *

The first time he clapped eyes on her... the first time he met Sansa Stark, Vampire Slayer...

Moments like these never quite go away. They mark the soul.

Just like that moment when he watched her die.

He had, as she often tells him now, _fiddled._

There is hell to pay for artificially prolonging his heaven.

Petyr looks at her now and something about how she said the whole Margaery/Robin/Batman thing earlier finally clicks in his mind.

He reaches over and brushes his fingertips softly down the side of her face. Skirting, skirting, always skirting that razor-sharp, invisible line between Watcher and Carer. Between Father Figure and —

"Sansa," he says gently and he feels her body still in response to him.

"You'll always be _the_ Slayer to me."

* * *

There is always so much to do, so much to tell. To discuss.

The police have finally gotten to the bottom of the murders, for instance. There really had been a break-in at Principal Baratheon's home. And all the signs check out: it's a burglary gone bad. Small signs of trouble, but it's all guns. No teeth marks. No slashed throats. No vampires. 

Father, mother, daughter. Fucking tragedy, especially since Shireen had been due to attend Westeros High next year. The students are still recovering. Hell, the staff are still in shock. And as for Petyr, he's been flat out holding things together behind the scenes, on top of his teaching load and bloody Cheer Championship heats. Stannis's replacement is due to arrive tomorrow. Hopefully _he_ can bloody well take over and bring some order.

He doesn't tell her this, not yet. Because there are other things they should probably say. They should probably discuss.

She stares at him now, and her next words are raw with relief and something else.

"You really mean that?"

He strokes down her face again and his fingertips tingle. Maybe it's her power. Maybe it's the static in the room. The crackle between them whenever there is a close shave.

He remembers how he felt the moment he watched her fall earlier today. That sinking, swooping feeling. He had felt like he was going to die all over again.

_I cannot lose you._

He knows he shouldn't when he steps a little closer again. He knows she should step back. Give them both some space. Maintain that professionalism. Because, gods help him, he can't today.

Instead, he feels her face lean towards his own.

Fuck.

"We can't..." he murmurs almost desperately.

"We shouldn't..." she agrees and the fact that she sounds so breathless _does_ things to him. His brain is short-circuiting now, little sparks lighting up around his vision. He can't see straight, he can't _think_ straight. All his mental acuity has fled the premises, and they're having an illegal party somewhere in his pants instead. 

She's just so close. Just so close. For months he's been holding back. She's underage. She's his student. She's his disciple. She's The Slayer, for fuck's sake. Also, she could physically break him in half because she's freakishly strong. 

At least the first of his litany of concerns got done away with last month. Eighteen. 

Exactly half his age.

Their noses bump. She's tilting her head, but they're not touching... they're not touching...

A high-pitched groan slips from the back of his throat.

There will be hell to pay for this slice of heaven too.

Petyr leans in and suddenly, his mouth is on hers, her lips are parting and she tastes like one of those lemon candies she loves to suck and bite whenever she's feeling shitty. Their teeth clash, and then their tongues meet and a kerosene trail of fire lights down his body. He walks her back and they both hear the slam of metal when her back collides into the lockers, when her legs part and he's pushing himself into her space, melting into her in spite of all of their clothes.

Her fingers are sinking into his hair now, mussing it as she pulls gently at his graying roots, as she moans a little moan that sounds happy. Another hand skims down his back before he feels himself smushed against her breasts in a vice-like grip. He did say she's freakishly strong.

It's all the permission he needs to get handsy himself.  

He's holding her head in his hand, cupping her face so gently, so gently. The other skims down her body, skirting the curve of the side of her breast, dipping in at her slender waist, before finding the end of her short, short, _short_ cheerleader skirt. (The uniform, he admits, had been about the only drawcard to the job apart from the excuse of watching her.) He hears her breath hitch when he hitches her leg up to wrap around his hip. That little skirt rides up even higher, exposing more of that smooth long leg he cannot presently see but knows by heart because he's dreamt of it plenty.

Her panties feel like satin as he brushes the hem around her leg, around the curve of her sweet derrière. He tilts his hip into hers, the zip of his pants painful against his most favourite body part. He presses into her and hums a little as he grinds into her _there_. 

He has her pinned and they rub each other out sinfully this way, their hips on fire, their mouths forever searching and finding, their hands desperate for more. More skin, more heat, more connection. More heaven. Any moment now, someone's going to come along and check in to make sure no one gets locked in. So no ripping off of cheerleader uniforms, then.

He doesn't know whether to feel relieved or frustrated. But he's got her pinned to the lockers. Even though he knows that really, the one who's sunk, the one who's got nowhere to run, the one whose heart is truly pinioned is his wretched own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Buffy. All that recent reminiscing about old ships made me get all nostalgic for the '90s.
> 
> #54: Against a locker kiss (From Greed is Green)


	2. Principal Matters

_There’s something going on with Mr Watcher and Undead Slayer over there..._

Margaery’s eyes are a deep brown and when she remembers to, they open large and vulnerable and innocent-like and she practically has to keep them peeled right now to keep them from sliding back into narrow suspicion. 

_Something has changed between these two._

It isn’t so much in the way he treats the both of them. Petyr is still a hardass. And since the cheerleading heats where everyone saw Undead Slayer bellyflop like a beluga whale, his training has only gotten even more insane. 

And she’ll take it, that Little Miss Perfect. Sansa comes home straight after school like a porcelain wind-up doll. Her tutorials are completed by the time Margaery wanders through the kitchen and picks at the fruit _Frau_ Grisel left behind. And then she’s off for training with Baelish.  

Like clockwork. Every day. 

All work and no play makes Sansa a very dull co-worker and fellow Slayer. And Margaery is restless. 

And that’s the other thing — this whole “we-Slayers-must-work-together” vomit she and Baelish seem to be singing in unison now like a freaky children’s choir. The training’s gotten weirder too: all about coordinating moves, leveraging off each other to make the most of an attack. And usually Margaery’s the launchpad from which Sansa gets to rise and shine. _Once a Flyer, always a Flyer. Always top of the pyramid, is our Sansa._

Margaery has always dusted vamps on her own. One stake, one style. One Slayer. 

She smells the vamp before he even has the chance to jump. In the distribution at birth of Nifty Slayer Powers, Sansa seemed to have scored quite a few biggie ones including surprising strength and a higher than healthy tolerance for Shitty Things Life Throws At Her. Some call it  _resilience,_  that infamous bad luck.  

Margaery seems to have been blessed with snark, dispassionate pragmatism, and disconcertingly big innocent brown eyes. And a nice pair of boobs, if she does say so herself. But she also has a wicked sense of smell.  

Something she’s never bothered to tell anyone, much less her new Watcher and his favourite Slayer. 

Vampires smell like dust and funky crypts to her. They say vampires smell different to different Slayers with the gift — sometimes it’s metal and iron, sometimes it’s acrid rotting flesh. But to Margaery, it’s dust and funky crypts. Which makes perfect sense, given the manner in which she likes to off them. 

She ducks and swings her legs just as he leaps from the shadows with a snarl. 

“Slayerrr!” this one calls in some lame attempt at the ancient war cry and it’s so theatrical and unnecessary — this one can’t be older than a year, surely — that Margaery has to roll her eyes. He lands on his back anyway, after all that — her ankles trapping him just as she flips him over deftly. _Wrong way,_ she tells herself, tutting. She needs him lying on his back and not his front for the pointy end of her stake to find his miserable excuse of a heart… 

He rolls and jumps to his feet in a single fluid motion, scaling the brick wall before them and flipping up and over her but she catches him on the return and there is a satisfying _whump_ as she sends him flying into the wall behind him instead.

She should end him now, she knows. Take her stake and make with the pointy. But Margaery is restless this fine evening and as she looks over her prey right now, taking in his game face — so generically, unremarkably savage, really — she decides she wants to play. 

He lunges for her and she grabs the nearest lid from the garbage can and smacks his ugly mug with it before she smashes her elbow in his pug savage nose. He’s really pissed now and she jumps back, crouching low and flicking him a _come-hither_ with both hands. 

His snarl reverberates through the alley this time when he jumps and he catches her, his fury seeming to double his strength, his speed. She stumbles as a pain shoots through her shoulder. He swings and kicks, and she blocks him in time although it’s only at half strength and again she feels a jarring pain. But now she’s pissed — with herself, if not with him — and it’s like Petyr’s training suddenly coming together and gelling.  

_Ground yourself. Counter big, sweeping moves with fast, effective ones. Stop wasting your energy, Tyrell._

And the clincher: 

_Your biggest weakness is your—_

Again Blood Breath lunges, but she manages to duck cleanly this time before she turns and gives a much more convincing one-two. He recovers again and she springs back, giving herself the space. She needs the momentum… 

He’s got the insane strength of the newly fanged, Margaery knows. But it’s all brute strength and laughable pseudo _kung fu_ moves and stupid temper, really. Just lacks so much finesse… 

She sees him coming, and it’s almost like slo-mo now and it’s the _best_ feeling in the world when she knows she’s all but won.  

Again he flies towards the wall and there’s a deafening crash of body against metal as he slams into the dumpster behind him. Must’ve really bent things out of shape, because a sticky-outty metal bit has poked right through from behind, pinning him partially to it like a Voodoo doll in reverse. _Ew,_ Margaery thinks. And he’s not even dead yet because… well, he IS technically dead. But he’s still twitching because the dumpster ain’t made of wood… and that metal rod is two inches shy of his heart. 

It’s too easy now to stroll right over and stake him there and then, but Margaery does it anyway. Somehow watching him writhe and twitch like this is taking all the fun away. _He's pitiful now,_ she realises with a grimace. _Sod it._

_And puff goes the magic Dracula-wannabe…_

She twirls the stake around her dainty fingers and almost drops the damn thing when she tries the move in reverse. 

And then she feels it. The stare. 

It isn’t the first time, she knows. It isn’t Baelish either. When Petyr watches her while she’s in the field, he’s appraising her and it’s a quietly moving, _breathing_ thing. She can feel him assessing her. Critiquing her. If he’s close enough, she can smell him as well and he doesn’t smell bad at all.  

But this is something else, this watching. It’s a quiet that is almost preternatural. But even more tellingly — nothing. She can smell absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

Nothing seems out of the ordinary when Margaery returns home. “Home” in SunnyVale is the closest thing to freedom that two high school kids can get away with around these parts. And it would be fun, if her room mate isn’t such an earnest little snore.

_Frau_ Grisel speaks only German and apart from acting the chaperone in public for both girls — a distant relative offering room and board for two high school transfer students — she keeps to herself. Petyr keeps her sweet somehow and it isn’t altogether clear whether her allegiance lies with the Watchers Council or just with him.  

Margaery slips in through the side gate and enters from the backdoor into the laundry. The house is pitch black but Margaery picks her way easily, her crazy-good night vision practically a requisite when one has to work the night shift all the time and fight sunlight-averse fangsters in dark, shady alleys. 

Margaery smells like the alley. 

She’s just ten-feet from Sansa’s room when she hears it. A low moan. She stops and then slowly tiptoes back. Sansa’s hearing ain’t bad on an average day. 

Except this isn’t an average day for Sansa, from the sounds of things. Margaery hears another gasp that sounds involuntary. Total silence and then that moan again. 

And the smell of sex, the raunchy musk of it. A mere whiff but it is enough. Margaery’s jaw drops open silently.  

Sansa Stark, Model Slayer, is either pleasuring herself very well or has smuggled a horny schoolboy into her tiny little bed… 

Another gasp and then a whisper — “Don’t stop…” And Margaery is about to turn and disappear down the stairs to give her fellow Slayer some sexy-time privacy when she smells it. 

The complex notes of cologne shipped in straight from Dorne… and icy-cool mint.  

* * *

“Miss Tyrell!” 

There’s a rap on her table and it’s only then that Margaery realises she’d fallen fast asleep. It figures, of course. The one class that Sansa doesn’t share with her is the one class she gets to fall asleep without getting her chair kicked before she REMs. 

There’s sniggering around the room and she glances around her to get a sense of how long, how far gone she’d been. They say Slayers can survive on pittance of sleep —useful trait for patrolling the streets and dusting bitey beasts before returning home to calculus homework. Margaery can’t, though. Three, four hours' snooze and Sansa is all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while Margaery is still melted into her bed, dead to the world. 

Old Pycelle is usually — and quite literally — toothless. Chemistry and Biology genius, sure. But absolutely incapable of keeping order in his class or exacting respect due his station. So it must have been a really, _really_  long obnoxious slumber this time for Pycelle to point his knobbly finger straight at Marge and order her to the Principal’s office. 

The Head is brand, brand new and Petyr’s hardly had the chance to suss him out for himself. Principal Lannister is even older and grimmer than the late Principal Baratheon had been — which is really saying something, considering how bloody curmudgeonly Stannis had been before. Some would say he’s a surprising replacement, except Mr Tywin Lannister is reputed to be an excellent administrator but an exacting man who doesn’t mince his words.  

A few of the usual troublemakers like Ramsay had been stupid enough to get themselves hauled into the principal’s office and Margaery half-suspects that they were really just getting a measure of the new Headmaster for themselves. And as to whether they lived to tell the tale, well… Last she heard, they’ve been suspended and haven’t returned to school since. 

Margaery hastily unfolds her waistband where she’d rucked up her skirt to mid-thigh, tugging the tartan until her uniform is back to regulation length at the knees. She hastily smooths the telltale creases out now and prays to no-one that her eyeliner hasn't also betrayed her by smudging racoon bags under her big brown eyes. It’s gonna dent the innocent act when your not-so-innocent face is simultaneously violating the no make-up rule. Margaery’s almost got the sob story down pat and is just about to timidly rap on the door when she hears him call her first. 

“Come in.” 

She’s never been up here before, and the room is bigger and airier than she thought it’d be. The principal’s office is still on the top floor of the oldest building on campus, but Margaery notes the fresh coat of paint and modern neutral tones. The shades are fully drawn but there is light enough in the room to read comfortably — and to gaze upon the intimidating man himself. Principal Lannister sits now behind his broad, deep desk and he doesn’t look at Margaery even as she stands in front of him, the perfected picture of contrition. 

He continues writing in longhand and his penmanship is impeccable — sweeping broad strokes but so consistent, so controlled it almost looks like a computer font.  

“You fell asleep.” 

The statement catches Margaery off-guard momentarily and she stares at his desk phone now, wondering if somehow Pycelle had placed a call while Margaery was making her way on foot up the stairs. Surely not...   

“Many late nights, according to your teachers. Prone to inattention during the day."

“I don’t get to sleep very much,” she volunteers, eyes wide and pleading, feet together and turned slightly inward as if a little girl. “I’m sorry. I-I’ll try and sleep earlier from now on.” 

“Hmmm,” is all he says as he continues to write without looking up. He actually dips his pen in an inkwell she doesn’t notice until now and when he writes again, she is suddenly reminded of ancient manuscripts and their scribes, the scratch of the pen etching history that will mostly be forgotten or misunderstood in centuries to come. 

And then she smells charred wood. A smoky perfume of ash with a whiff of incense. Margaery stares as Principal Lannister continues to work his fountain pen across the page before him, the linen paper white and nondescript, and it doesn’t make any sense at all that she should look at all that but smell a thousand years gone past. 

He _is_ old. Mid-sixties perhaps, with golden hair so thin and fine it almost makes him look bald, though no less imperious or striking. Tywin Lannister has a patrician face, with a long hooked nose and a thin mouth not given much to smiling, Margaery guesses. Even while sitting, she can tell he’s tall and lean.  

And strong. There is a harshness to him. A virility and strength that seems to come off his skin like an icy vapour. Everything in tight control, like a carefully coiled spring. 

He stops before he signs his name. The pen stills and the scent dies in the room so she’s back to smelling… well… nothing.  

And then he looks up and right at her. And Margaery Tyrell cannot look away. 

His eyes are green and impossibly light gold, narrowed and searching and all-seeing. It’s predatory. And she should turn and flee and stay seven hells away. But they hold her in a vice-like grip she doesn’t understand and even as the seconds drop away in the screaming silence, the last thing Margaery feels like doing is tearing her eyes away. Is breaking this thread, this cord.  

_This is an interrogation!_ some spidey sense in her starts to scream. Except the heat that rushes into her and through her turns her gooey and liquid, and she feels herself swaying slightly as her thighs find the edge of his desk, as she starts to lean against the wood. She is warm and tingly inside and luxuriously so and yet, she cannot breathe easily. 

_And why do you not sleep much?_ comes the question in the deepest and darkest baritone like chocolate notes and for the life of her, she can’t quite tell if he’s just asked the question or if she just imagined that he had. 

“I have a job,” she manages to gasp. 

_Does it pay well?_

“Not nearly as much as I’d hoped,” she finds herself quipping and then she starts to panic because what kind of a night time job would a high school student have? She had thought up a few perfect answers not two minutes ago but for the life of her now, she cannot remember any of them. Her story, her cover, her wonderful explanation, her beautiful alibi… None of it, as long as she stares into those watchful mean green eyes flecked with gold. 

_What kind of a job keeps a young woman like you up so late?_

And she cannot tell him! The story, the cover, the wonderful explanation, the golden lie, the airtight alibi — nothing! _I’m what they call a Slayer!_ she wants to blab like an idiot instead. _I kill vampires. Little cute me._

She licks her lips and the air is thick with expectation now as he continues to watch her, steepling his long fingers in front of him. He stares at her and she doesn’t know why but it looks almost _mocking._

_What do you do at night, Miss Tyrell._

_I kill I kill I kill I kill again._

But she doesn’t say it. The mouth works and the tongue licks her lips as if she’s parched but nothing. She cannot say it. She will not say it. Even as she feels herself sway, her body losing its skeleton just as she seems to be losing her mind… 

She drops and suddenly he’s by her side. A blink and he’s here behind her, his chest hard and sure, and she feels herself sag against him even as the icy grip of his fingers almost brands her skin. 

He clutches her to him as her head rolls back and his eyes bore into hers now, his thin, cruel mouth mere inches away as she forgets to breathe altogether.  

Nothing and stillness and a silent drowning. 

He blinks and it’s like a slap. Margaery stiffens suddenly, and then she’s struggling to get away and he lets her. 

“Stop sleeping in class,” he commands before adding quietly, “Change your job, while you’re at it. Now get out.” 

* * *

The sun has dropped when she leaves his office and Margaery trudges home now, unsure of what exactly just happened. School has largely emptied, apart from after-school training in the gym. Pycelle’s class had been one of the last for the day but even so, it is jarring to leave and realise that she’d missed an entire lesson in between. 

She had lost time. She had lost perspective. She hadn’t heard a thing. Not the bell, not the students as they poured out the classroom like ants. Not the distant bang of lockers two floors below. Not the chime of the clock. 

She had been somewhere else entirely. 

What the fuck. 

_She should tell them,_ she knows. This is so not the thing to hide. He’s not Vamp, not while he’s prowling his office in the day. Demon maybe. Petyr can look him up, just to be sure. But even as the thought starts to congeal, something in Margaery revolts at the idea. 

_I should tell them._

_You know that means they’ll stop you._

_I should be stopped._

_You know that means you’ll never get to find out..._

The water starts with a splutter and a hiss and Margaery waits as it heats up, peeling off her uniform. She drops her modesty shorts on the floor, steps out of them. Her panties are next. She stares at it for a second or two before she reaches down and grabs it off the floor, bringing it to her nose and sucking in deeply.

She had been wet, alright. So wet, too wet. He had stared right into her eyes until she could make out the threads of gold in them. He had touched her with that gaze. She had felt it right through her body. And even though she couldn’t smell a damn thing, she felt his power as it seeped right through her cotton shirt, pebbling her nipples, causing the blood to course up her neck and pound, pound, pound in her head. 

Principal Lannister had penetrated her with that stare and she had soaked her panties right through. And how the hell is she ever going to explain that to Saint Sansa and her Watcher? 

* * *

The first time she felt his eyes on her was just after lunch and right before Pycelle’s class again. Her neck had prickled as she approached the large central staircase in the oldest school block and she had willed herself not to look even though every hair on her body, every sense, every cell was yearning for a peek. For any excuse to ascend those six flight of stairs, and then… what?

She looked up and he wasn’t there. 

But he walked the corridors one day, the fluorescent white lights casting an almost grey pall on his skin as he strode right down the middle, head and shoulders above as the students parted like a human sea. He had stared at her then, a gaze that pinned her to the door in the far end of the hallway and no one, no one else seemed to know, seemed to care, seemed to _see_.

And even though he was at least fifty paces away, that charred wood, that smoky cologne of parchment and ash and incense wafted over lazy and slow. As she breathed him in, she watched him close his eyes in silent pleasure.   

Small things. Misplaced assignments, talking in class, chewing gum. Coming in ten minutes after the bell. And always, always, _always_ falling asleep in Pycelle’s class.  

They wouldn’t send her to him, not one teacher. There are worse crimes now. Missing a whole Geography lesson. Smoking in the toilet. Sansa hasn’t ratted her to Petyr yet but both girls aren't talking much anymore.  

_Just as well,_ thinks Margaery. _Because she doesn’t know what to say._

Sansa’s off with Jeyne more often than not. And Margaery... Margaery stays alone. And no matter what she does, she never gets punished. She never gets sent to his room like the naughty girl she is.  

The pungent smells of food and teenaged bodies disappear suddenly when she’s about to enter the lunchroom one day. Hundreds of stinky students in the one dining hall, and she smells nothing even though the double doors are merely ten paces away. 

_Come into my office,_ she hears and when she turns around she sees him standing behind her, she feels a jolt of adrenaline. The palms turn sweaty. Her heart hammers in her throat so hard, so fast, she wonders if he can see its outline throbbing against her flesh. 

He doesn’t wait for her, but turns on his heel and strides off.  

She knows better than to run after him. Margaery looks around for Sansa and Baelish, each of them deep in conversation with others even though she knows there’s an invisible red thread joining the two across the hungry teeming throng. 

She slips away.  

* * *

“You’ve been trouble, Miss Tyrell.” It is not a question and so she doesn’t answer.

“Careful now,” Principal Lannister continues. “Any more of your nonsense and it starts to look like a cry for attention.” 

She turns sharply at his words only to find his expression implacable. Mouth downturned in something almost resembling a sneer. 

But it is his eyes. They are bright, brighter than she’s ever seen them. 

“Come here.” The voice is soft and almost velvet. She comes to him, stopping only when her thighs hit his desk once more. She waits as he stands up, as the scrape of the chair against the ancient wooden floor sets her teeth on edge. She waits as he stands and buttons his jacket slowly. As he walks around the great expanse of wood and comes to stand right beside her. 

“You’ve been trouble, Miss Tyrell.” It sounds like a giant cat's purr, the rumble in his voice brushing her ear now so she shivers visibly. “You’ve been seeking an audience.” 

“And you’ve been playing hide and seek,” Margaery retorts now. The words, bold as brass, hang in the air. 

He smiles then, a sight so ominous that again she shivers. 

“Your uniform is not to regulation.” And he squats before her now, the edge of a long wooden ruler sharp against the top of her knee. He tuts and the nearness of him, the sudden change in height, his cool breath on the back of her legs is enough. She feels her blood rush low, the apex of her legs start to throb. 

His eyes shine brighter and she bites her lip before he brings the ruler down. 

The lash across the back of her knees sends them buckling.  

“Entirely unsatisfactory,” he muses as the sting that quickly follows brings with it a liquid heat that rushes right through her. His hand reaches up, grazing the exposed flesh just below her skirt. 

“Too short,” he pronounces and he smacks her thighs deftly — _one-two_. She gasps and bites her lip, gripping the table in front of her so tight, her knuckles start to whiten. 

“Conduct unbecoming.” Another crack of his makeshift cane and she cries out, the sound airy and high. “Demonstrably defiant,” he accuses as the flex of his ruler meets her ripened buttocks more woman than girl and even through the tartan, the sound of his cruelty, the pain of his whip soaks her white panties through to transparent. She whimpers and she knows it’s not the sound of pain, but pleasure. 

He pulls her to him now, her back flush against his chest as his hand snakes under her chin before pulling her roughly, twisting her head back so he’s glaring into her depths once more. 

“Be careful what you wish for, Miss Tyrell," he intones. “You’ll stay away if you know what’s good for you. But I rather suspect that you either don’t know or don’t care.” 

Margaery doesn’t trust herself to speak. She is wound tight like a spring and any moment now, she feels like she could come apart from deep inside. She’s close, so close… 

_The next time,_ he promises now, _won’t be so innocent. You have been warned, Miss Tyrell._

* * *

There’s two of them, Margaery realises. Sometimes they look like one and the same, and sometimes completely different. 

But they smell like death and dying and dust and rotting crypts, except that no matter how hard she tries, how many times she scalds them with Holy Water until their flesh falls off their bones… No matter how many times she breaks them and stabs them and stakes them until her arms are sore and her hands are bloodied from splinters, from gripping the wood so hard… 

No matter what she does, they just keep coming back to life. 

_Impossible._

Sweat is pouring out of her now and her clothes stick to her skin. Somewhere, she’s cut herself badly and blood is flowing like a tiny river down her arm, her back, the total length of her leg, which only emboldens the vamps all the more. Sansa is dead in a ditch and Petyr is sobbing over her bones. _Sansa has turned to bones awfully quick._ And Margaery is scaling the walls with one set of Fangs hard after her. She feels his cold, spidery hands slip over her neck even as she hears his feral snarl in her ear and she clambers up even faster, her fingertips barely gripping the bricks. The wall never ever ends, and yet she cannot lose him, outpace him. She cannot get the upper hand. She has no idea where the other vamp has gone. 

And so Margaery jumps, again from an impossible height but perhaps Sansa’s final death now means her own true Slayer powers get to kick in. And do they kick! Margaery jumps and it must be at least three storeys high when she makes the leap but she lands perfectly anyway. She knocks both vampires flat, and before she can stake the one on her right, it goes limp and then shatters into dust before her very eyes. 

She turns now and stabs the other. Stakes him, right through the heart and using all that she has so that the wood sinks deep. But he laughs with such scorn and she freezes instantly. She knows that voice, she knows the timbre of it. She’s heard it in her sleep, in her head, in class and outside of it, in the still of the night, in the brightness of the day. It thunders and caresses in equal measure, and sends waves of desire instantly to her sex. 

And she looks at the vamp she just staked, and it’s _him_. Principal Lannister. His game face has morphed back into the mocking visage she knows only too well. The back of her knees are stinging from remembered pain and pleasure. Long, spindly fingers snake up her skirt and prise between her thighs, and she finds herself pushing against his hand, yearning for a stabbing of her own. _Stake me,_ she begs silently, _with your fingers._   _Push in and embed yourself._ A filthy, filthy thought. 

His face is the same. Cold, calculating, controlled. It could be daytime in the office, except it is night and the air is cool. His face is just the same, except for the pair of incisors now grown and glinting in the moonshine. 

_Vampire. But how?_

“You’ve always known…” he purrs before he descends and bites her lower lip and she tastes herself, her blood. She comes fully, gushing all over his long, cold fingers as she arches her back. 

Margaery jerks hard, lifting off her bed and at first her eyes are open but do not see. Her clothes, her bed are saturated with her sweat and it’s like she’s been running non-stop for an hour.  

Her heart is racing but at least it is proof that she lives after all and when she summons her senses, she knows that Sansa is asleep and safe in her room still, her lemony scent a sweet confirmation. But the windows to Margaery's room are open wide, the broken lock swinging in the night breeze. 

* * *

She should tell them.

But she doesn’t.  

He should be stopped, if it were even remotely true. 

But she waits and it isn’t very long before she gets sent once more to the topmost floor of the oldest building in the school. This time, it had hardly been an infraction on her part. She had apparently looked at Pycelle wrong. Margaery isn’t even sure what that’s supposed to mean. “This is my regular face!” she had pointed out. And then she got sent from the class. 

She should run, but she doesn’t. A fish on a hook, a hapless fly drawn to the light that could possibly zap her to death and she’s outside his room waiting. This time she gets to knock before he tells her to enter. 

The room is dimmed but not dark, the blinds are down as usual but it’s broad daylight just outside and the principal is sitting with his back to the curved wall of windows. He looks well — too well to be a vampire going about his business in the day, not fanging anyone. Not that she’s heard, anyway. 

_Or it could just be that you had a wet dream about the possibly subhuman scary-as-fuck principal._

“Miss Tyrell, we meet again.”  

“It’s Mister Pycelle, Sir. He sent me out of the room for—“ 

“Yes, yes,” rumbled Principal Lannister impatiently and it strikes Margaery then, a fleeting hunch, that perhaps Pycelle serves at the pleasure of Tywin Lannister.  

And if so… what is she doing here? 

Margaery stifles a yawn and Principal Lannister arches an eyebrow.  

“Did you not sleep well?” 

The question is put drily and he waits. But the look he wears is of one who already knows the answer.  

And she starts to reply glibly, to tell him she slept like a baby. To tell a lie and a truth wrapped tight by mumbling that she doesn’t serve tables at a late-night Chinese restaurant anymore. But when she opens her mouth, out tumbles—

“I dreamt about you.”

“Oh?”

“I dreamt you were a vampire.”

The sinking horror as he considers her, as the seconds drip between them, thick and silent. She watches as he slowly pulls to standing, watches him move with deliberation and ease around the deep wooden table only to stop right in front of her, to lean back and sit lightly on the edge, arms folded. 

“Are you?” something in her dares to push. 

“A vampire?" he muses. He doesn’t smile but the gold in his eyes dance. She cannot tear away. 

“You’re not human.” The words hang in the air between them and Margaery stops breathing when he’s suddenly up close, when she stumbles and sways and then falls like an idiot girl into waiting arms that catch her, then almost crush her to him. She feels herself already losing something — a battle she didn’t know she'd been fighting all along, perhaps. Her balance. Her sense. Her fucking mind.

It’s a swooping, falling sensation when he lowers his head and she knows she’s gambled very, very badly when his teeth lengthen, when she feels her blood throbbing hard and fast, pounding up her neck. As if summoned. 

_Vampire!_ she calls him, the mind screaming soundlessly.

 _Slayer!_ he smiles before he breaks her skin.

It’s a pain like no other and Margaery gasps as she’s held up to his greedy mouth, as she flops like a rag doll, useless and used, as she feels him slowly drain her. But then the pain fades almost instantly and in its place comes another richer, fiercer intensity. A pressure builds within her now, even as she feels the tug and suck of him at her throat. There’s a tautness pulling ever tighter within as she waits, as a pleasure gathers slowly like a thundercloud growing pregnant. 

Her nipples harden to the point of pain and she clenches her thighs as her body throbs and hums, seeking something. Friction. Release. She’s reaching around blindly as the cloud continues to build, as the tide starts to fret the banks, as she starts to tremble and grow desperate.

_Please!_ she sobs, and he releases her suddenly, catching her as she drops. And then his mouth is on hers, his blood-soaked lips drenched with her and as she tastes herself, her own power on his wretched tongue that now invades her mouth, that now dares to tango with her own tongue… She tastes her own blood still fresh in his own mouth and she comes violently, calling out weakly into the room, the wave finally crashing over her as every pleasure sweeps through, as her panties soak until she smells her filthy need for him, as she feels herself come apart from within and give herself over to the very creature she was built from birth to destroy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was #41: Forbidden Kiss (Tywin/Margaery), from Framboise


End file.
